


Machine Learning

by greased_lightning_rod



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Crack Treated Seriously, Fucking Machine, M/M, Vampires, non-hockey au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13594563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greased_lightning_rod/pseuds/greased_lightning_rod
Summary: Brayden's doing research on the development of machines for his thesis project. It's slow going until he gets access to Valtteri Filppula's private collection.While the collection itself is impressive, and the mansion it's housed in even more so, Mr. Filppula himself is never around--until Brayden asks what's in the locked room at the end of the hallway...





	Machine Learning

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I'll be honest, I definitely wrote this intending for Val to bite Brayden, but that seemed like an awful lot for his first time with a fucking machine. So there's no vampire reveal. Maybe I'll do a sequel? *halo emoji*

Brayden has exhausted all the school’s limited tomes on the history of machinery, and the local museums have provided him with all they can, but it’s a pretty specific ask. There are no more public collections to view. But when he laments this to the museum caretaker—finishing his thesis is going to require a lot more travel than he planned on—the man just looks at him thoughtfully. “Well,” he says, “I have a friend with an extensive personal collection. I can arrange an introduction.”

“That would be amazing,” Brayden says effusively. He needs at least three more hands-on type experiences in order to give his paper credibility.

“His hours are a bit odd,” the man tells him, “but I think he’ll take a shine to you.” 

Whatever. Brayden is a university student. His hours are automatically odd too. “I’ll make it work,” he promises.

Mr. Filppula’s collection turns out to be more extensive than Brayden imagined. And the guy has to be insanely rich, because it takes up an entire wing of a frankly enormous mansion.

A butler or something lets him in; Brayden was hoping to talk to Mr. Filppula himself about how he came to be in possession of so many interesting machines, but the butler person tells him “the master is not available this evening,” which is a bummer.

Brayden stays four hours just looking at the artifacts in the _first_ room, but Mr. Filppula, true to the butler’s word, never shows up. Fortunately the butler—his name is Claude—lets Brayden know that “the master has given permission for you to return whenever you need to.”

It’s a little fucked that in 2018 there are servants who still call their boss “master,” but the access to the collection is pretty sweet. Brayden’s thesis is going to rock.

Brayden returns several times. The artifacts are fascinating, and there are so many. Sometimes when he arrives in the very early morning, he runs into very attractive—usually young, like his own age—men and women who seem to be just leaving. But no matter what time he arrives, he never manages to encounter Mr. Filppula to thank him in person.

He suspects that Claude must be bringing him snacks; two or three times when Brayden is there into the wee hours of the night, trays appear with fruit and juice and sandwiches and the like, little things he can absently munch on while he makes notes. He hopes Mr. Filppula is paying Claude well.

“Claude,” Brayden finally asks after he’s catalogued most of the wing, “what’s in that locked room at the end?”

“That’s Mr. Filppula’s personal viewing room,” Claude tells him. Brayden might be imagining it, but he thinks the man’s ears go a bit red. “Where his most prized items are kept.”

“Oh. Wow. He must have some really great stuff,” Brayden says wistfully. “I mean if the stuff in there is even better than these—!” He gestures to a collection of antique sewing machines, a steam engine, and a very old model of a water wheel.

Claude assesses him, then notices the tray Brayden ate all the food from—somewhere several hours ago. He raises his brows. ”Well,” Claude says, “if you come back tonight, perhaps Mr. Filppula will give you the tour of that room himself.”

Claude wants Brayden to return around ten at night. He packs Brayden a lunch—steak and mushrooms! A spinach salad with goat cheese and dried cranberries and pecans! Brayden _never_ eats this well; he is a college student, after all—and tells him to make sure he is well rested. Brayden sleeps all morning and part of the afternoon, wakes up to savor his meal, and then manages to fall back asleep for another few hours before he has to get up and get ready. He wants as much of Mr. Filppula’s time as he can get.

Brayden wakes up almost too late, showers, and dresses. He wants to make a good impression on someone who’s been so kind to him, so he puts on his date clothes and brushes his teeth.

He rings the doorbell at Mr. Filppula’s mansion at two minutes to ten, expecting Claude to answer. Instead of a handsome well-kept ginger in a suit, though, the man who answers the door is a handsome clean-cut blond man who hardly looks old enough to have accumulated the kind of wealth Brayden associates with Mr. Filppula. He’s dressed in dark-wash jeans and a blue button-down that matches his pale eyes, with the sleeves rolled up to call attention to very nice forearms. Brayden might stare a little.

“You must be Brayden.” The man smiles, gesturing him inside. “I’m Valtteri Filppula. I hope you’ve been enjoying my collection.”

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” Brayden gushes as he enters, managing somehow to avoid saying _I thought you’d be older_. “Honestly, it’s going to make my thesis so much more complete. I can never thank you enough for letting me admire it.”

Valtteri laughs at this as though Brayden has said something very witty, and puts his hand on the small of Brayden’s back to usher him down the hall toward the machinery wing. “I assure you, Brayden, the pleasure is mine.”

“Where did you get all this, anyway? Uh, if I can ask,” Brayden adds hastily. He doesn’t want to accidentally imply the bounty is ill-gotten or something. For all he knows, it is.

His host waves his hand in dismissal. “Oh, here and there. I used to travel a lot. And I’m something of a magpie, collecting beautiful machines.” He gives Brayden a sly look from the corners of his eyes. “You understand when I talk about the beauty of machines?”

Brayden nods enthusiastically as they approach the end of the hallway. “Yes! After high school I went backpacking around Europe, and I remember this one museum in East Germany somewhere—nothing but intricate old clocks and tools for making them and every mathematical implement under the sun—” He realizes he’s rambling and breaks off, his cheeks burning. “It was gorgeous.”

He admitted it expecting to be laughed at, because calling it beautiful was one thing but Brayden’s word vomit was quite another, but Valtteri cocks his head and smiles. “The Mathematischer Salon,” he says, identifying the museum just from Brayden’s vague discription. “I have always wished to go.”

“You should!” Brayden enthuses. “It’s… opulent. And the way the sun shines in the windows, glinting off all the gold instruments, it’s….” He flushes again. “Well, it’s worth a visit.”

Something wistful flits across Val’s face. “Perhaps one day,” he says. They have reached the end of the hall, now, and he turns to face Brayden. “I must warn you, access to this room is restricted for a reason. If the contents offend you, please be respectful as you leave.”

What in the world does he have in there? Brayden wonders, but before he can ask, Valtteri takes an old-fashioned key from around his neck and fits it into the lock.

The door opens.

At first Brayden doesn’t understand what Valtteri was worried about. His first glance of the room doesn’t reveal anything more unusual than he’s seen of the others.

The walls are lined with bookcases, with artifacts stationed at intervals around the room and several modern plush benches and chairs to offer visitors a place to sit. But unlike the other rooms, this one has no windows. And the center of the room has been left open. Along with the chairs, it gives the impression that perhaps one might expect a demonstration of—Brayden looks at the artifact immediately to his left—

Oh.

The phallic shape is unmistakable, but the item looks _old_ , and it’s not so much a machine as a tool. It doesn’t have any moving parts. 

Brayden swallows hard and looks away, but his eye catches on the bookcase and—well, that’s a book by the Marquis de Sade, all right.

Valtteri seems to be waiting for Brayden to speak, but Brayden is currently speechless, taking it all in. He wonders why Valtteri allowed him in here at all. Did he mean to embarrass Brayden? But that seems absurd, after all he’s done to help Brayden so far.

There’s a vibrator from the early 1900s, and then a bigger one, even older, that seems to have a coal chute attached. And then—then there’s the last one.

It’s not a vibrator. Not by the length of the arm attached, and the wheel attached to that. No, that would produce a distinct thrusting motion. Attached is a narrow leather bench with a set of bars mounted below that on the far end, as though to provide a place to rest one’s hands. The nested metal supports with the half-inch hair pin shoved through the evenly spaced sets of holes seems to indicate the whole thing might adjust into a different shape.

Closer to the machine itself hang a pair of padded U-shaped straps—in fact, there are straps hanging loose beneath the bench too, and a set of buckles attached to the center bar of the handles. Brayden’s mouth goes dry, but he doesn’t flush, because all his blood has flooded south.

“Does it work?” is, embarrassingly, the first thing he says.

Brayden almost claps a hand over his own mouth, but he manages to play it a little cooler than that. Valtteri, though, sees right through him, if he way he smiles out of the side of his mouth and flutters his eyelashes is any indication. “All items in my collection are functional,” he says smoothly.

For a second Brayden’s mechanical brain gets hung up on that, because _wow_ , that’s—there are _so many machines_ —

And then Valtteri says, “Would you like a demonstration?”

Brayden chokes on his next inhale, mind filled with pornographic images. His dick has been low-key asking for attention since the moment Valtteri touched his back in the entryway, and now it’s past half-hard and on its way to sit-up-and-beg. The idea that Valtteri might—that he could—

Valtteri strides up to the machine and crouches near the front of the bench. “It’s quite ingenious, if I say so myself,” he says. “The mechanism by which it runs is variable, of course, but its primary power is….”

Oh. Oh, they’re not just handlebars, they’re _pedals_. As Valtteri turns them, the arm moves, slow at first and then faster as Valtteri causes the gears to spin.

“Perfect for solo use,” Valtteri goes on, standing. “Excellent control. Though of course some prefer to cede that control to others, and the machine can accommodate that too.” He takes a step toward the main gearbox and pulls a lever that, Brayden can see, transfers the drive chain to another set of gears. “Voila.” Valtteri turns a crank at the gear box and the fucking arm speeds to life again.

“Wow,” Brayden says, his voice cracking. “It can do them all. It all. I mean.”

Valtteri smiles and walks to a corner of the room, where he opens part of the wall to reveal a small refrigerator. “You sound a bit parched. Can I offer you something to drink? Wine?”

Brayden swallows. If the wine is part of some elaborate seduction plan, it’s really not necessary. He’s not exactly dumb, but he is young, and the other part of that saying still applies.

On the other hand, he’s feeling kind of parched, and a little wine might soothe his nerves. Valtteri is so smooth, and Brayden’s relative inexperience makes him feel clumsy. At least if he gets a little buzz going, he’ll care less about appearing suave. “Sure,” he says.

Valtteri doesn’t ask if he wants white or red. He selects something that’s a rich, deep crimson and pours it into a stemless goblet. When he crosses the room to hand it to Brayden, he almost seems to glide across the floor.

Their fingers brush and a jolt goes through Brayden; Valtteri’s fingers are long and slender and cool, but heat blooms in Brayden’s stomach regardless. “Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t know why it comes out in a whisper.

 

The wine is thick and rich, and it goes right to Brayden’s head—both of them. His skin practically buzzes as Valtteri gestures him to sit, not on the bench of the, the _machine_ , but on one of the ones facing it.

“So?” Valtteri asks, sitting back in a modern armchair with his own glass. “Impress me. Tell me something about it.”

Brayden almost drops his glass. “Uh. Okay. Can I…?”

Valtteri gestures. “Be my guest.”

Brayden suppresses a shiver. He takes his wineglass with him as he examines the machine; it feels almost like armor.

Brayden examines the machine as closely as he dares, looking for tool marks, innovations that might date it, wear and tear, a maker’s mark. Anything to keep him from embarrassing himself. “Well, it’s in excellent condition. It could just be a replica.” He shoots a glance at Valtteri. “But knowing the rest of your collection, I doubt that.”

Valtteri acknowledges this with a tip of his glass.

“The machinery seems to date to the late 1800s, maybe early 1900s.” He kneels to examine some of the mechanisms more closely, but when he touches a set of gears, his fingers come away greasy. His face burns. “It, ah, seems to see regular use, or at least regular maintenance.”

“Very observant.” Valtteri smiles. “I had Claude maintain it just this afternoon.”

Brayden goes scarlet. He knows—he thinks—Valtteri must mean he had Claude oil the moving parts, but Brayden is imagining something else entirely.

“You’re wondering if I’ve ever ordered him to use it,” Valtteri surmises. “I haven’t, though it’s possible he’s used it of his own accord. After all, curiosity is a powerful thing, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I, um, well,” Brayden stutters. He tries to take a sip of wine to give himself time to think of what to say, and a dribble escapes the corner of his mouth. God. He’s obviously here to be seduced, and yet he’s somehow still making a hash of it. Before he can get too upset with himself, though, Valtteri is there, relieving him of his wineglass and setting it on a small side table.

“You strike me as a curious man,” he says. His fingers are cool on the inside of Brayden’s wrist, but you couldn’t tell it by the way Brayden’s blood heats.

Curiosity killed the cat, Brayden thinks wildly. But hey, he always was more of a dog person. “Uh, I admit to some… professional curiosity?” Brayden tries.

Valtteri tilts his head back and laughs. He’s beautiful while he does it, even more so than usual. Brayden doesn’t feel insulted. He knows instinctively that Valtteri isn’t making fun of him—he’s delighted. “I should have spoken to you sooner,” Valtteri says, shaking his head.  “If only I had known we had so much in common.”

What, that they’re both hot, horny gay perverts? Not that Brayden is complaining. He gathers his courage and his composure. “About that demonstration you gave before,” he says. “I was hoping for something a little more hands-on?”

Valtteri doesn’t laugh this time, but he does smile. “I was hoping you might say that.”

Apparently it’s not as simple as Brayden disrobing and presenting his ass. Valtteri escorts him to another of the room’s cases. “Choose your weapon,” he says cheerfully, and Brayden almost chokes again at the variety. While some of the dildos look old, as though they are original to the machine, others have almost certainly been added later; the lurid green one looks like silicone and is covered in thick bumps.

“Uh,” Brayden says. He wasn’t expecting _this_. There’s a beautiful swirled glass one, six inches or so; and an unsubtle thick rubber cock; one that might be stone, realistically shaped.

“Or shall I choose for you?” Valtteri offers quietly, nearly in his ear, and Brayden shivers.

Oh. That’s—“Yes,” Brayden says gratefully. If Valtteri chooses for him, at least he can’t judge. And Brayden is spoiled for choice and not sure he can pick just one.

Valtteri looks pleased by this, and escorts Brayden over to the bench—the machine’s one this time—but he doesn’t ask him to sit. Instead he takes out a tape measure, the kind tailors use, and Brayden stands as still as he can while Valtteri runs the tape over his body: his arms, his nape to the top of his ass, his inseam. Then he adjusts the machine, shortening the bench, moving the handlebars out.

“There,” Valtteri says, apparently satisfied. He beams at Brayden. “Now.” He reaches into his pocket—Brayden is surprised jeans that tight have pockets, to be honest—and withdraws a scrap of black fabric. “Shall we make it even more interesting?”

A bolt of arousal shoots through Brayden’s stomach, but he doesn’t agree right away. “Uh,” he says, thinking. “Put a pin in that thought? No offense, dude, but I did just meet you tonight and that”—he indicates the machine with a tilt of his head—“is already a lot.”

“Of course!” Valtteri says just as cheerfully, and the blindfold disappears… somewhere, as if by magic. “Do you have a safeword?”

“Oh.” Brayden’s never used one before, but the practice he is familiar with. He thinks for a moment. “Moose Jaw,” he says finally. He did an internship there in undergrad. It is, in his humble opinion, the least sexy place on the planet.

“Moose Jaw,” Valtteri repeats. “Excellent. Mine is Twilight. One last formality, if you please, Brayden.”

“Okay,” Brayden says, feeling wrongfooted.

The easy demeanor disappears as Valtteri straightens, the smile fading into neutrality. “In this room, I would very much like you to address me as ‘sir.’ I won’t do anything without your explicit permission, and I will expect you to agree verbally. We may work out other rules later, but we should start simple for tonight, yes?”

_Simple_. Brayden is standing next to a custom antique fucking machine, about to disrobe so a virtual stranger he’s supposed to call _sir_ can debauch him in his private sex toy museum. “Yes,” he says, and then, when Valtteri stares at him expectantly with raised eyebrows, he amends, “yes, sir.”

Valtteri’s smile returns, sunshine bright. “Good,” he says. “That’s good. Thank you, Brayden. Now please take off your shirt.”

A lightning bolt of heat arcs down Brayden’s spine, even as goose bumps rise on his arms and chest. He reaches up to undo the buttons, not quite sure where to focus his gaze. The only times he’s ever played like this have been half-joking and juvenile, fun and sexy but not like _this_. Not with real rules. Not with someone like Valtteri.

He finishes with the buttons and lets the sleeves slip down his arms, catching it before it can fall to the floor. He didn’t wear an undershirt, so his chest is bare to Valtteri’s gaze now. He licks his lips. “What should I do with it, sir?”

Valtteri takes it from him and drops it carelessly onto the armchair, without even looking. “Thank you, Brayden. Turn around, if you please, slowly. I’d like to look at you.”

Brayden’s ears burn, but he does as Valtteri asked, awkwardly holding his arms at his sides. He’s in good shape—he plays house league hockey at the university and swims in the off season—but he’s not exactly cut either. Valtteri looks like he doesn’t have a spare ounce anywhere.

Not that Brayden’s likely to get to see for certain, the way things are going.

“That’s good,” Valtteri says. “You have a nice body, Brayden. You obviously take pride in keeping it in excellent condition.”

Brayden finishes the circle and flicks his gaze to Valtteri’s. “Thank you, sir.”

He gets just the hint of a smile, and then Valtteri says, “Your shoes next, please. Bend at the waist if you can, no kneeling.”

The thought brings yet more heat to Brayden’s cheeks, but a good amount of it goes south too. Before he can think better of it, he asks, “Do you want me to turn around first? Uh, sir?”

Valtteri doesn’t laugh, though his eyes crinkle at the corners. “What promising initiative you’re showing! Yes, please do; I wouldn’t want to miss the full effect.”

Brayden does, and then bends to take his shoes off, keeping his legs as straight as he can. His pants pull tight over his ass, which he imagines is the purpose of the exercise. Or maybe the point is for him to take his clothes off as directed. He finishes with his shoes and stands, holding them as though for inspection.

Valtteri puts a hand on his arm to turn him around again, so he’s facing away from the machine, and takes his shoes, sets them on the floor next to the bench. “Thank you, Brayden. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

The question throws him for a loop, a bit, because he doesn’t quite know. He’s horny, and a little chilly, and still wrongfooted, though now those feet are cold, because he was wearing deck shoes with no socks. “Uh, pretty nervous,” he admits. “And kind of turned-on.”

After a second he remembers he should’ve said _sir_ , but Valtteri sees him about to add it and just shakes his head, not smiling exactly, but something about the gesture reassures him. “Well,” he says, stepping closer, “let’s see if we can’t switch those adverbs, hmm?” He raises his hand; the palm feels cool and smooth against Brayden’s cheek. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that’s all right.”

Brayden’s heart hammers as he breathes, “Yes, sir.”

Valtteri’s mouth is cool too, when it closes over Brayden’s, and his body doesn’t seem any warmer. But the press of him against Brayden’s chest stills his urge to tremble, and his logic works: as soon as Valtteri’s tongue touches the seam of his lips, Brayden’s anxiety flees and his dick takes over. He lets himself be kissed—lets Valtteri kiss him, openmouthed and curious, as though he’s learning Brayden’s taste. Valtteri tastes coppery, like the wine, and just as heady.

Brayden expects Valtteri to touch him more while they kiss—explore his chest, maybe, or his back, or grope him through his pants. But he doesn’t: it’s just a kiss—a very good kiss—until it isn’t even that anymore, and Valtteri pulls slowly away. Brayden tries not to sway forward with him but only partially succeeds.

Valtteri clears his throat, and for a second Brayden wonders if maybe he’s just as affected as Brayden. But he doesn’t have time to wonder long, because Valtteri says, “I should like it if you took off your trousers now, please,” and yes, wow, Brayden definitely wants to do that.

He nods enthusiastically, grabbing for his fly. He shoves his pants down along with his boxers and stands again, so fast he almost trips himself. He’d be embarrassed about the way his dick sticks out, hard and obvious, but he feels Valtteri’s eyes on him, appreciative.

There’s no suave way to hand over his crumpled trousers and underwear, but it doesn’t matter; Valtteri takes them and tosses them behind him without looking before running his gaze down Brayden’s body. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing his fingertips over Brayden’s chest, down his stomach, stopping just short of his groin.

Brayden shivers; his dick tries to jump into Valtteri’s hand. But Valtteri doesn’t make a move to touch him there. Instead he runs his hand back up, until his palm is splayed between Brayden’s pecs, and gently pushes him backward until the backs of Brayden’s legs touch the bench.

This is really happening.

“Lie down for me, please,” Valtteri says. He would sound almost detached, if not for the slightly deeper note to his voice. His eyes are dark. “Chest on the bench, knees on the hassock. Fit your ankles—yes, exactly. Clever boy.”

Brayden heats all over at the praise. He’s supporting his weight on his chest and knees; the bench runs from his clavicle to his navel, leaving his dick to hang full below him. His hands fit naturally onto the handlebars. There’s even a separate padded support for his chin, which puts him at the right height to—well, he’s certain the design is intentional.

Valtteri runs his fingers over the back of Brayden’s neck and down his spine, then over the curve of his ass. “Do you have sensitive skin, Brayden? Allergies to latex, petroleum? Do you have a preferred lubricant?”

No one’s ever asked Brayden that before, certainly not while running their fingers from the tender inside of his thigh to the inside of his asscheek. “No allergies,” he manages around a groan. “Use whatever lube’s closest.”

That earns him a delighted laugh and a light slap on the inside of his thigh—barely hard enough to startle him, let alone sting, but it does set his mind to wondering. “Well,” Valtteri says, amusement evident in his voice, “perhaps not what I had in mind, but that is an _excellent_ idea.”

And before Brayden knows what he means, Valtteri is behind him somehow, in the space between Brayden and the machine—in the space between Brayden’s asscheeks, his mouth pressed against Brayden’s hole.

Brayden has time to mewl once, a shocked, animal sound, before the wet press of Valtteri’s tongue robs him of his breath. His knuckles whiten on the handles as Valtteri opens him up, spreading his cheeks with his thumbs, teasing his hole with pointed flicks. Brayden’s stomach coils in anticipation; he’s already leaking—and already loving and dreading the way Valtteri arranged the bench. No matter how he squirms, he won’t be able to rub his cock against anything.

At the moment, Valtteri doesn’t seem interested in Brayden’s dick. Instead he eats ass like—Brayden can’t think of a simile, but it’s destroying him. He starts clenching his teeth, steeling himself against the pleasure, but when Valtteri presses his thumb in alongside his tongue, Brayden’s mouth falls open and a wretched, ardent sound emerges, followed by another when Valtteri tugs on his rim, and then another. He knows his hole is loosening as Valtteri’s tongue seems to travel farther when he licks from top to bottom, and his eyes sting. He must look—he must—

Valtteri pulls his face away, leaving Brayden trying to clench around two fingers—not nearly enough. “Perfect,” he says quietly, pressing his teeth to the top of Brayden’s ass. “You are delicious, sweet boy. But I’m afraid we need a better product to achieve the desired result.”

Brayden nods dumbly, because he feels incredible but he doesn’t know which dildo Valtteri chose, and more lube is never a bad call. That must be close too, because something cold hits his hole just a handful of seconds later, and Valtteri works it into him with what feels like three fingers. Brayden trembles on the bench the first time Valtteri purposely massages his prostate, desperately wanting to move into the touch. Even without restraints, he can’t. He has no leverage.

“Wonderful,” Valtteri says, and Brayden hopes at this point that he’s not expecting Brayden to reply, because words left him three fingers ago. “How responsive you are. I’m going to enjoy watching you, Brayden. _Listening_ to you as the pleasure overwhelms you.”

Brayden gasps in response, thinks he might manage a nod. He’s going to enjoy being watched and listened to.

And then Valtteri pulls his fingers away, leaving Brayden a shaking, boneless mess. “I’m going to insert the dildo now,” he says. “Do you remember your safeword?”

Brayden swallows thickly. “Moose Jaw,” he says, licking dry lips.

Val’s voice is politely, warmly neutral. “Do you want to use it?”

“God, no.”

Valtteri laughs again, but Brayden has no time to savor it, because Valtteri presses the head of the dildo against his hole. Brayden can’t see it, but he can tell it’s not the biggest of them, the one with the shaft nearly as thick as his wrist. That one had a smooth head. This one is covered in knobby bumps that catch on his rim as Valtteri twists it, teasing. He breathes hard, trying to stay relaxed, but his hole clenches and unclenches, grasping.

“Breathe out,” Valtteri instructs, his left hand soothing over Brayden’s back, and Brayden obeys automatically.

Valtteri pushes, and Brayden gives. The dildo has a solid core but a pliable surface covered in soft spikes at the tips and firmer bumps along the shaft, and each one of them makes its presence known as Valtteri fucks it into him. Brayden breathes hard, mouth open, and clutches at the handles. The dildo might not be the largest in the collection, but it isn’t small; it’s stretching him just to the point of pain, but not beyond it.

“Good?” Valtteri asks quietly.

Brayden nods helplessly, mouth open as he breathes through it.

“Good,” Valterri repeats. He smooths his hand down Brayden’s back to his ass, playing with the hilt of the dildo in such a way that it shifts inside him. “I’m going to attach it to the machine now, and then we’ll need to test it to make sure we have the right angle.”

_Oh God._ Brayden nods again, hoping Valtteri won’t expect him to answer out loud. He doesn’t; there’s pressure on the dildo, which bumps up into his prostate. Brayden would collapse onto his face if he weren’t already supporting his weight on his chest. He can feel the vibrations in his teeth as Valtteri attaches the arm of the machine to the base of the dildo. Even the slightest touch makes his toes curl.

“All right?” Valtteri asks again.

Brayden makes himself open his mouth this time. “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” Valtteri says, his voice so warm that Brayden forgets to be nervous—forgets what Valtteri is doing entirely, until Valtteri says, “I’m going to turn the machine now. If it doesn’t feel right, tell me so I can stop.”

Brayden doesn’t know exactly what _doesn’t feel right_ will feel like. He’s never been fucked by a machine before. But Valtteri turns the crank and the dildo withdraws, angling upward as it does and then down again when it fucks back in, the textured surface tugging at his hole. It doesn’t hurt. But it doesn’t feel good either.

“I,” Brayden starts, not sure how the arm should be adjusted.

“Yes, I see,” Valtteri murmurs, fidgeting with one of the arm pivots. “The change should be shallower. What’s the point of a fucking machine if it can’t hit your prostate perfectly every time?”

Brayden hopes Valtteri doesn’t expect an answer to that.

It seems he doesn’t—because the machine whirs behind him, and this time it’s as perfect as Valtteri promised. Brayden’s eyes water and his breath comes in pants; he tightens his hands on the grips. The bumps and ridges overwhelm him with every movement. He can’t last, not like this. The pleasure is too much—but the more of it he gets, the farther away his orgasm seems. And with the design of the machine, Valtteri could fuck him for hours without getting tired. Maybe he will.   

Or maybe he’ll slow his cranking deliberately until just the head of the dildo rests inside Brayden’s hole, and then stop, leaving Brayden writhing for more but without the leverage to get it.

“What,” Brayden whispers. “What are you, why are you stopping?”

Valtteri tisks and takes a few steps until his shoes come into Brayden’s line of sight. They’re immaculate, expensive. Italian, maybe. “I’m not made of stone, beautiful boy.”

Brayden gathers himself and raises his head to find Valtteri smiling gently at him. He’s not flushed, but his eyes seem to shine intensely, and there’s a noticeable bulge in the front of his jeans. They’re undone, and Brayden inhales sharply at the knowledge of what Valtteri must have intended. He tastes a hit of something heady, musky. Valtteri wants him—wants him enough that he stopped what he was doing to provide himself relief. Brayden licks his lips, at a loss for what to say, what to offer. He would offer anything. He would—

Before he can say anything, Valtteri smooths his hand down the side of his face. Brayden shudders when his thumb passes over his lips, and he swallows hard. _I’m not made of stone_ , he said.

“Let me,” Brayden rasps, blinking wet eyes. He wants desperately to have Valtteri in his mouth, to see him, taste him. He wants—

“I understand what you want,” Valtteri assures him, swiping his thumb over Brayden’s lips again. Brayden doesn’t have the breath to whimper. “But that means I won’t be able to reach the crank.”

Brayden’s stomach wrenches. He wants Valtteri’s cock in his mouth, but he’s already trembling on the precipice of something incredible, and he doesn’t know how to give that up. No one has ever straight-up asked if he would choose their pleasure over his own. Thinking about that now makes his stomach twist, and not in an entirely unpleasant way.

Valtteri slides his fingertips under Brayden’s chin and tips his head up. “So if you want my cock,” he murmurs, “you’re going to have to power the machine.”

The twist in Brayden’s stomach goes red hot, lancing through him like a bolt of lightning. The idea of Valtteri watching what _he_ did to Brayden was intoxicating enough. The idea of him watching as Brayden fucks himself is something else, something Brayden doesn’t have words for yet.

Fortunately his body seems ready to answer for him; he’s already nodding in Valtteri’s hand, Valtteri’s fingers sliding elegantly over his jaw. “Yes,” he manages before he remembers himself: “Yes, please, sir, I want that.”

“Beautiful boy,” Valtteri repeats, and his hands are still cool but his voice is so warm. “If you need to use your safeword, pinch my thigh.” He slides away for a moment—Brayden shuts his eyes, not ready to accept the loss—and the machine clanks as the drive train shifts over. Brayden feels the vibration of it in his eye sockets, and his hands, which until now have been resting idly on the bar, jerk as the brake releases.

“Ah!” The dildo that’s been teasing him suddenly lurches forward, and Brayden’s mouth drops open again at the pleasure—just in time for Valtteri to press his cock to his lips.

Brayden’s balls feel tight and heavy, but despite his body’s insistent demand for more, his weak, shaky arms only manage to turn the shaft at a slow, halting, frustrating rate. Instead he concentrates on the smooth, cool, soft skin of Valtteri’s cock as it slides past his lips, the taste of him in Brayden’s mouth. The touch of Valtteri’s hands behind Brayden’s ears as he cradles his head.

Brayden’s eyes water, so he closes them, breathing through his nose. It takes all his energy to keep his mouth soft and wet, to keep his hands moving, to keep the tension in his belly from coiling too tight. He’s so hard he’s dripping, so desperate that he keeps making hungry, high-pitched sounds around Valtteri’s dick. He can’t get enough, and even the halting thrusts of the machine drive him closer to the edge every second. He feels frayed; it’s too much to try to suck, to make this good for Valtteri, and to look after his own pleasure. He doesn’t have the coordination.

Then Valtteri hums under his breath and angles Brayden’s head just so, and Brayden’s fingers go nerveless. He blinks his eyes open long enough to meet Valtteri’s gaze, a piercing blue that sends a jolt through him. Valtteri must see Brayden’s acquiescence in his face, or read it from the slackness of his mouth or the encouraging flutter of his tongue, because he doesn’t hesitate long. Brayden has time to take a deep breath and wet his lips before Valtteri pushes in again, all the way this time, into Brayden’s throat, until Brayden’s nose touches his groin.

Brayden’s eyes fall closed. He feels boneless, like a puppet with cut strings; the tension drains out of him until the throb of his dick is just an afterthought in the back of his mind. The world narrows to the taste of Valtteri’s skin, the brush of it past his lips, into his throat. Brayden swallows, and swallows, works his tongue, and shudders when Valtteri says “Good boy” in that voice like dark chocolate.

For the next few moments Brayden doesn’t move except to breathe. Valtteri starts slow and never quite speeds up, leaving Brayden wishing he could grasp the backs of his thighs in encouragement. He can’t, though; Valtteri might take that as a pinch, and Brayden doesn’t want him to stop. So he can only stay where Valterri put him, his mouth watering, saliva dripping down his chin, and brace himself against the pleasure. His lips zing with the passage of Valtteri’s cock, and the firing synapses in his brain don’t care that it’s his mouth and not his ass being fucked.

He doesn’t know how long it goes on. Until his jaw aches and his stomach is so tight he doesn’t know if he can unclench. Sounds fade. The scents of spit and come and sex assault his nose and just make his mouth water more. He chokes a few times when Valtteri presses too deep; he thinks they both like that. His face is wet. His cock hangs heavy between his legs. He _wants_.

And then Valterri curses under his breath, something Brayden doesn’t understand, until his mouth floods and Valterri pulls out, spurting come over Brayden’s cheeks and chin.  

He shudders, and his body clenches, and his lungs heave for air. He licks his lips automatically, the copper-salt tang zinging across his tongue. Something brushes his mouth, and he inhales and looks up.

Valtteri is watching him, eyes hot. Brayden’s breath catches in his throat at the intensity of his expression, something wild and curious and maybe even possessive. Brayden doesn’t have time to process it before Valtteri’s bending down, covering his mouth in a kiss that sets every one of Brayden’s nerves on fire. It’s slick and filthy but somehow tender, and Brayden feels like he’s going out of his skin—he’s buzzing, vibrating. He can’t move, but he can’t stay still. He needs something he’s not getting, and with Valtteri’s tongue in his mouth he can’t ask.

Valtteri must sense it, though, because he pulls away a moment later, his hand on Brayden’s cheek. “My sweet boy,” he says, and this time Brayden is sure: it _is_ possession in his voice, but not the destructive kind. “Will you let me be good to you?”

“Yes,” Brayden says, barely more than a whisper. “Yes, please, sir,” and Valtteri makes a noise of approval and smooths his hand down Brayden’s back.

The touch is at once calming and electrifying; Brayden goes utterly still, inside and out. “Shh,” Valtteri says, as though Brayden is capable of making a sound when he’s being touched like this—only it turns out he is, when the dildo disengages from the machine and the angle changes and the pressure disappears, and a cry rips from Brayden’s throat.

“Delicious boy.” That—that doesn’t even make sense, but Brayden doesn’t care, _can’t_ care. Valtteri is holding the toy now, and he pushes it in and in and in, fucking Brayden just as thoroughly as the machine. Only now Valtteri’s touching him too, his back, his thighs, the curve of his ass, his hole. A ghosting pass over a nipple, the shell of his ear. Brayden’s mouth opens and sounds fall out without his input, heady, wrenching noises that echo in the vast tiled space. Valtteri nails his prostate better than the machine ever did, but the pleasure spiraling in his gut seems stoppered; it’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.

Until Valtteri drags his fingertips down the side of his neck and twists on a stroke in, so that the bumps and ridges move laterally against his sensitive rim. Brayden comes with a soundless scream, face wet, hands clenched. The orgasm tears out of him, almost hard enough to hurt as his muscles contract. Valtteri gently fucks him through it, slowing gradually and finally stopping when Brayden goes limp on the bench.

Things go fuzzy for a period after that. Brayden’s aware of some vague cleanup—a soft, damp cloth on his face and then one around his hole—and then a sort of weightlessness. He comes round in an enormous copper bathtub full of warm water, with Valtteri next to him, murmuring sweet-sounding things in a language Brayden doesn’t understand.

He inhales sharply and shakes his head and then Valtteri smiles at him, fond but—something. Shadowed, almost. “There you are,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

How is he _feeling_? “Like I got hit by an orgasm truck,” Brayden says, meaning to be blunt, but it comes out in a lazy drawl.

Valtteri chuckles, an absurdly sexy noise that Brayden’s exhausted dick can’t begin to respond to. “You do have a way with words. Here.” He reaches for a glass set on a table next to the bath, and Brayden wonders briefly at how he got here. Did Valtteri carry him? But then who ran the bath? Surely he didn’t put Brayden on the floor in the meanwhile, and there’s no bed in sight. Or maybe Claude helped?

Maybe Brayden doesn’t want to know.

The glass is full of some rich red liquid; a tentative sip proves it’s fruit juice, pomegranate, maybe. Brayden drinks it all, and then Valtteri takes the glass back and sets it on the table again. “Would you like to talk about what happened?”

At first Brayden thinks the question is bizarre, but he pauses before dismissing the idea outright. “I think,” he says slowly, “it went well.” Valtteri snorts a delicate laugh. “I mean, orgasm truck.” But his analytical mind is starting to come alive again, and he reexamines Valtteri’s motives. “The reason to talk about things like this is to improve on them for next time. Right?”

“I knew you were clever.” Valtteri reaches over the side of the tub again without taking his eyes from Brayden’s face. This time he offers a handful of grapes. “Open.”

Brayden obeys unthinkingly, then has to consider his headspace. He’s suggestible, far more so than usual. But he doesn’t feel unsafe, despite the vulnerability. He chews, swallows. The grapes are sweet and seedless, and their taste is bright on his tongue. “I liked it. I liked that you gave me options. It seemed like you could tell what I needed.” He lets Valtteri feed him another grape and wonders which of them needs Valtteri to feed him more. “I didn’t like it when I wasn’t… I don’t think I like waiting to come when I’m that close.” It’s a lot to admit that out loud, and he shivers until Valtteri wraps an arm around him. The shivers stop even though Valtteri’s body isn’t particularly warm.

“That was too much for you,” Valtteri posits, and yeah. That’s about right. Brayden wasn’t ready to feel that untethered. He nods. “Okay. We don’t have to do anything like that. Or if you want, we can work up to something like it. If you’d like to do this again?” His voice holds a hint of a tease now; he must know he has Brayden hooked.

“Oh, if I’d like to do this again,” Brayden teases back. “I don’t know, I’m always getting propositioned by super hot rich guys with exotic antique machinery collections who fuck me into the stratosphere and then cuddle me in a bathtub the size of my living room. I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Valtteri tilts his head back and laughs, the sound of it filling the room. It does more to warm Brayden than the water ever could. “Is tomorrow night too soon?”

Brayden smiles and leans into Valtteri’s lean, muscular shoulder. He has a check-in with his thesis advisor tomorrow at five, but thanks to Valtteri’s collection, he’s well ahead of schedule. “No, tomorrow’s perfect.”

Valtteri tucks them into to a soft, luxurious bed with heavy comforters and actual tapestries, presses a kiss to the side of Brayden’s head as he begins to close his eyes. “I’ll be gone before you wake up,” he says apologetically. “Business, I’m afraid. But Claude will see you get breakfast. Will you send me a message to let me know you’re all right?”

Brayden’s read about sub drop; despite his general hands-on learning philosophy, he doesn’t particularly want to experience that firsthand. “Mmm,” he agrees. Sleep is calling him. “But don’t blame me if it gets dirty.”

“Perish the thought.”

Brayden falls asleep before he can think of anything witty to say in reply.


End file.
